The Simple Things
by OCGirl94
Summary: A series of oneshots about our favorite consulting detective's responses to the simple things in life. 9. Past Thanks to ShadowNinja1011 for betaing. No part of this series will be slash. However, non-slash suggestions for new chapters are welcome. DISCLAIMER: I do not own "Sherlock" or any part of it.
1. Rain

The Simple Things

Rain

On rare occasions, Sherlock would allow himself to enjoy the simpler things of life.

One such thing was the soft rains of London. On those days when the rains came down easily, with a soft shushing, if he had no case to occupy his mind, he would sometimes find himself enjoying the weather. It had the strange capacity to soothe his racing thoughts. He could be at peace on such a day, if only for a while.

At times, he called peace hateful. But, this was only because there was peace all around him in which he had no part. While all else was quiet, his mind continued to claw desperately in search of some problem, some question to latch onto, to search for an answer to. This was not the case on those rare, rainy days.

For these reasons, Sherlock Holmes stood just outside 221B Baker Street one foggy, rainy day in London with his face turned to the sky and his eyes closed.

A part of his mind continued to work as he stood, dissecting the sounds that came his way. The soft patter of rain. The low voices of the few passersby. The click of their shoes on the pavement.

Among those steps was one particular, familiar gait which caught his attention. The steps drew near, then ceased.

Sherlock did not open his eyes, did not turn his head. "John," he said, by way of greeting.

"What are you doing?" was the reply.

Grey-green eyes opened. The head rolled slowly to the right, a small smirk tugging at the lips. "It would seem…obvious."

John rolled his eyes even as a smile spread over his own face. He had come to hate that word at times. But, only at times.

"Ok then, why are you standing in the rain?"

The face had turned back to the rain. The eyes had closed once more. "Because I want to."

It was another clear sign that they didn't have a case at the moment. When on a case, Sherlock never did anything without a reason.

"Well, you're likely to catch a cold," John persisted. "And where does that leave me? Having to do everything for you." He paused, then added, "As if I don't do that already half the time."

Sherlock swiveled easily on his heel and made for the door to 221B. John caught a glimpse of the tall man's face. His smirk was widening.

Holmes threw the door open and strode inside with customary grace and fluidity. His soggy coat left a trail of water droplets in his wake.

"When have you ever known me to get sick?" Sherlock asked as he blew into the living room in a swish of dripping coat.

'_Showoff_,' John thought. Nevertheless, the man was right. In the months that they had shared the flat, Holmes had never once come down with so much as a sniffle.

The consulting detective threw his coat carelessly onto the tile kitchen floor. The fabric squished and John absently wondered what the thing was worth.

Sherlock curled up in his usual chair and closed his eyes once more. John could see it. He wasn't sure how, but he could. If they didn't get another case soon, some new holes might appear in the wall.

John made his way to the kitchen, steered around the lump of coat, and asked, "Tea?"

"Mmm."

That was what passed for a yes with Sherlock.

Soon, John returned to the front room with two cups. Setting these on the nearby table, atop a stack of old papers that Sherlock was too lazy to throw away, the doctor settled into his own chair.

The man across from him was, to employ a pun, a mystery. He could go for days without food or sleep. He could run about in the rain and never get sick.

As if on cue, Sherlock sneezed.

The pale eyes sprang open. For an instant, some emotion flickered there. Surprise, perhaps?

John rolled his eyes.


	2. Flower

Flower

Flowers were one of the things Sherlock Holmes knew little about. He could explain, in perfect scientific jargon, how the plants grew. But, he could not understand why people enjoyed them, why they put them all around their houses and stuck their noses in them from time to time. Sure, for scientific study, they were fine. But, why, he wondered, would one want to keep houseplants? They had to be fed, watered, pruned. And yet, they served no purpose. They did not produce food. Most people did not study them. What was the point?

Such were the questions that Sherlock had asked himself before and that he asked John when, one day, the doctor came home with a small honeysuckle plant. John explained that there had been one such plant at his childhood home, and that he had always loved the smell of it. He added that the green thing "brightened up" the flat. Sherlock still did not understand. At last, John gave up, saying, "It's sentiment, Sherlock. Just leave it at that."

Sherlock had nodded his head and then picked up his phone, quickly forgetting the conversation.

Days passed and the little plant grew. It shot out its sweet-smelling blossoms and soon the scent reached from where the plant sat on a kitchen window to the living room. Sometimes, Sherlock would stop and inspect the thing closely, his face as impassive as ever. After a few minutes, he would shrug minutely and walk away. John would shake his head. Sherlock was a genius. But, this fact seemed to render him often incapable of enjoying something as simple as the scent of a flower.

Of course, Sherlock seemed to make it a point to _not_ enjoy the thing. He never smelled the little blossoms, never seemed to see that the lively bit of green lessened the dull grey of scientific equipment that sat all around it. He seemed determined to prove that he was not like other people, that he could not be affected by something as simple as a plant.

Then, one day, after the plant had sat in the window for some weeks, John emerged from a morning shower into the living room to be greeted by a strange sight. Sherlock stood near the sink with a glass of water in hand. He guzzled two thirds of the glass's contents, stood uncertainly for a moment, then dumped the remainder into the flowerpot. There was another pause. Then, Sherlock stooped, took one of the blossoms between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed it. Though John could only see his friend's profile from where he stood, he was almost certain he saw a look of pleasure cross the detective's face, a smile quirk the corners of the mouth.

John strode forward and cleared his throat.

Sherlock jumped and spun in a single movement.

"So," The doctor drew the word out. "You do like it."

Sherlock had replaced his mask of boredom in an instant. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said evenly.

John quirked a brow at his friend. "Oh, really?"

Sherlock was stoically silent.

John smirked and pointed at something in Holmes' left hand.

Sherlock looked down. In his hand was a small, white honeysuckle bloom. The detective tossed the bud back in the pot and wheeled in an instant. But, John was almost certain that he saw the usually pale skin brighten.


	3. Clouds

A/N: This one is short, I know. But, once I got the idea, I couldn't resist writing it. Short as it is, I enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it. I'd also like to thank everyone who has favorited and followed my series. Finally. I've been meaning to do this for days, a special shout-out to Fantony, my first reviewer on this story: Thank you so much for your review! I'm so glad you enjoyed my story. Reviews are a big part of what drives me to write more. Thanks again!

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Clouds

"I'm telling you," John Watson pointed a finger at his friend Sherlock Holmes, then turned to point at something up in the sky instead. "that looks like a sailboat."

Sherlock squinted at the sky, cocked his head, first one way, then the other, and then shook his head.

"You don't see it?" asked the doctor.

Sherlock made no answer for a moment, continuing to scrutinize the sky. His mind told him what types of clouds hung there, produced estimates of their altitude, and formulated a sound prediction of the weather from these findings. However, his eyes stubbornly refused to see what John saw, a cloud shaped like a sailboat. He shook his head again.

"You're hopeless," John said.

Some days later, the consulting detective, who had been working on his laptop, suddenly turned from the screen to look out the window, lost in thought. It was some minutes before he realized what he was staring at. Just outside the window, hanging up in the blue sky, was a cloud in the shape of a magnifying glass. Despite his brain's protests of the uselessness of such a thought, Sherlock chuckled to himself.


	4. Stars

A/N: Sherlock's slightly ooc in this one, but I hope you guys enjoy reading it anyway.

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Stars

Stars were one of the few things Sherlock admitted to enjoying. Or, at least "appreciating." So, one night, when there was a meteor shower over London, John invited the consulting detective to go out to see it. Nevertheless, the doctor was surprised when Sherlock agreed, without having to be convinced, no less!

The two took a taxi to a nearby park to watch the shower there. At first, Sherlock sat on a park bench there, with his long legs stretched out before him. But, once the meteors began to appear in earnest, Sherlock stretched himself out on the grass with his arms under his head and stared up at the sky. After a minute, John did the same, lying down a couple of feet from his friend.

They lay in companionable silence for another few minutes. Then, Sherlock heard a noise. He turned his head to look at John. The doctor had his eyes closed and was whispering something.

Sherlock gave the man a quizzical look and asked, "John, what are you doing?"

John's eyes sprang open and he turned to face his friend. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment as he said, "I was…making a wish."

Sherlock was silent, looking confused and thoughtful. At last, he asked, "Why?"

Explaining the things that were common knowledge for most people could be an awkward task. At those times, Sherlock seemed oddly like a child, asking questions whose answers were obvious, and yet, hard to explain.

John fumbled for the right words, then said, "Whenever they see a shooting star, most people make a wish. They say, if you do, then it'll come true."

"Why would people think that?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "A "shooting star" is nothing more than a meteor being burned up as it passes through Earth's atmosphere. It can't grant a wish."

"Well, of course, everyone knows that. It's just…something people do, for fun."

Sherlock gave his friend one last look that was two parts incredulity, one part thoughtful confusion, and then turned his gaze back to the sky.

"You could try it," John said suddenly, breaking the silence that had followed his last words.

Sherlock's piercing eyes turned back to the doctor. He seemed to actually consider the words, albeit disbelievingly, something John had not expected. "For…experiment purposes?" the doctor added with a grin.

Sherlock pondered this, as if it were a question of the gravest importance. Then, he said, "I…don't need to wish for anything."

The words were hesitant and very quiet, but spoken in a matter-of-fact tone. Sherlock spoke as if he were discussing something as certain and well-known as the laws of physics. However, the importance, the veiled sentiment of his words, was not lost on John.

The older man turned his eyes back to the sky, a smile on his lips.


	5. Mornings

A/N: I think this one's slightly longer than my others. Yay! I wish I could do even longer ones. All of these are so short. Anyway, to SHansen: Thanks for your review! Like I said, I did feel Sherlock was ooc last chap, but I really enjoyed writing that. I'm glad you think I do an okay job with his character. Maybe a little occ's not so bad? Just to show he _does _care, because I love doing that. Finally, non-slash ideas for new chapters are welcome. Thanks.

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Mornings

Sherlock rarely slept. And, on the rare occasion that he did, it was rarer still that he should wake up before noon and equally rare that he should sleep in his own room. It was just as likely that he should collapse on the couch or curl up in his chair.

On those mornings when John awoke to find his flatmate asleep in the living room, the doctor had learned to be very quiet. For, if something disturbed Sherlock on one of those uncommon days that he slept, he woke with a raging temper which then often stuck with him for the entire day.

One morning, John awoke to find the detective stretched out on the couch, sound asleep, long legs dangling limply over the arm of the sofa. It was on that day that John, after having had a quiet breakfast and come into the living room with a cup of tea, forgot one of the cardinal rules that applied to Sherlock's "recharge days."

He opened the curtains in the living room windows.

The effect was immediate. Sherlock hissed in pain and resentment, jerked upright, and yanked the blanket at the other end of the couch up over his head, with a growl of, "John."

"Sorry, sorry," John stammered, hurriedly closing the curtains. "I forgot."

Sherlock soon went back to sleep, his face still buried under the blanket. However, when he woke up of his own accord much later, John did everything he could to make up for his earlier blunder, apologizing repeatedly, making tea for his friend, and generally feeling guilty. Sherlock slept so rarely as it was. John, being a doctor, knew this could not be good for the detective's health, though he almost never saw any outward effects of Sherlock's awful sleeping habits. All the same. knowing this, John did not want to deprive his friend of even one minute of sleep.

Despite John's attempts to extend the olive branch of peace, for some hours Sherlock sat on the couch in silence, looking and acting the part of a child who has had his favorite toy taken away. He knew that he was being unreasonable, that John hadn't meant to disturb him, and that, in however small a way, he would regret acting so petulant later. But, it was just one of those times when the rather childish part of his brain took over.

That part of his mind did not give up its sway until dinner time. John ordered Chinese from the place that stayed open until two and had the goodness to set it right in front of his pouting friend, who sat unmoving on the couch.

For a moment, John thought he must have been hearing things when his ears caught a very quiet, uncertain, but sincere "Thank you."

John flashed a grin at his companion and settled into his armchair.,

The next morning, the doctor rose to an even stranger occurrence then Sherlock's thanking him for something. He wandered into the kitchen to find that the table had been cleared and on it sat a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, a cup of coffee, a mug of tea, and the morning paper. The detective was nowhere to be found.

John smiled, took a seat at the table, and enjoyed the breakfast that had been set out for him. When he was finished, he took his mug of tea and moved into the living room, burrowing comfortably into his armchair. It was a minute or two before he realized the room was unusually bright. Turning his eyes to the windows, he saw that the curtains were open. Had he left them open after the…incident? Certainly not. He must have closed them. No, he _knew _he had closed them.

Sherlock had almost never said the word "sorry." But, he always found a roundabout way to apologize, at least where John was concerned.


	6. Wind

A/N: This one's a little more John-centric actually. Hope you guys like it. I was thinking of possibly turning it into a longer story. Please tell me if you think I should! Also, if the thing about a mayor seems wrong or silly, I know next to nothing about England's government. That was just the best thing I could think of. :)

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Wind

The wind moaned in the trees, sighed through the chinked bricks of the one wall that stood near them, and then came down to swirl about Sherlock's ankles, tossing the bottom of his coat in circles.

He and John stood out in England's countryside. They were investigating the ruins of an old castle. Some thought the place was haunted, an idea at which Sherlock scoffed, rather loudly. Nevertheless, the mayor of a nearby town had recently come here and vanished and, since he had no other cases, the consulting detective had, at the repeated request of the mayor's replacement, agreed to go to the castle to poke around.

Next to him, John shivered though the wind was not cold and said, "This place gives me the creeps, Sherlock. Why did we have to come in the middle of the night?"

"To prove a point." Sherlock answered evenly.

"Such as?"

The detective rolled his head to one side and gave his friend a look that said 'Isn't it obvious?'

John rolled his eyes. "What? We're going to sit here all night to prove there's no ghost?"

Sherlock gave a single nod. "In a sense. Of course, I don't believe in ghosts. But, everyone we've talked to claims to have seen something here, always around midnight." Here, the detective rolled his eyes at the clique timing, then continued. "Therefore, if our "ghost" yet remains here, we will likely see him at that time."

John's eyes widened. He'd asked the question jokingly. Sherlock, however, was all seriousness.

"Oh, no," John said. "I am not going to sit out here all night! It'll probably rain any minute."

Sherlock considered this. Grey eyes flicked up to glance at the tattered clouds hurrying across the sky, obscuring the full moon. Had his brain been willing to stoop to such a level, Sherlock might have realized how closely their situation resembled a bad horror movie. But, his brain would not register such a thing. So, he merely shrugged.

"Well," Sherlock's voice was as calm as ever. "have fun walking back to the main road…alone."

John was silent. He knew exactly what Sherlock was doing. But, was he willing to make the trek alone, in the dark, through the thick copse that bordered the ruins? Of course! He was a soldier! He wasn't afraid of some supposedly haunted castle! But, was he willing to leave Sherlock out here, alone and weaponless? The wind moaned eerily around him again. Sherlock seemed utterly unaffected, seemed to be enjoying it actually. At least, as close as he could come to honestly enjoying something. Sherlock would be fine. There was nothing out here. But...always, there seemed to be a but. What if whoever had abducted the mayor of the nearby town _did_ show up here? With a gun, or other weapon?

The doctor let out an extremely loud sigh, sat down, and leaned against a tree, saying nothing and looking as angry as he possibly could.

Sherlock settled next to him, smiling slightly.


	7. Shopping

A/N: First, I know this has been done before, but I seriously did not intend to copy anyone. This idea just came into my head before I knew fics like it existed. Second, as you all may have noticed, these are going to become more sporadic now. I'm already low on ideas. And those that I do have are so short as you can tell from this one! I have also been distracted lately reading _Sherlock _fanfics and on that note I would like to recommend one. _Got My Eye on You _by sevenpercent is another story about Sherlock and Lestrade before John came along. I don't like the cussing, but there's not a ton and, aside from that, I love the story and highly recommend it. Third, and last, I hope you all enjoy this one and I again want to thank all the people who have favorited, followed, and reviewed my story; thanks so much, guys!

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Shopping

Sherlock Holmes did not _do_ shopping. Before John had come along, the consulting detective had practically lived on carry-out, on the rare occasion that he did eat. Usually, the only reason he went to the store was for the seemingly ever-scarce commodity of milk. Or, perhaps, to buy tea, or supplies for an experiment. And, in the case of the latter, he often avoided going to the store by getting supplies at St. Bart's.

But, now, the aforementioned doctor had a cold, leaving Sherlock with no choice but to go to the store.

The genius strode darkly through the building, his coat pulled tightly about him and yet still flying in his wake. He looked very much the part of a vampire, hating the store's florescent lights, withdrawing into the coat. One could almost picture a little thundercloud hanging over his head as he stomped through the place collecting what he needed.

Once or twice, someone who worked at the store tried to approach him to ask if he needed help. After the second time, passersby gave him a wide berth as he walked on, all swirling coat and deadly looks. The sound of someone crying could now be heard in the place.

Sherlock gathered a few more things and then made his way to a self-checkout, just barely smiling when he pictured a certain man yelling at the machine in front of which he now walked from the store with a few grocery bags and got a taxi, the smile still pulling at his lips._  
_  
"How did it go at the store?" John asked when he walked into 221B. The doctor was congested and his voice sounded all wrong.

"Fine," Sherlock answered curtly, clearly determined to show how much he hated shopping.

John did not really believe the monosyllabic reply. There was something about Sherlock's tone that said all had not been fine, at least not for the other people at the store. And he was almost sure he saw the detective bite his lip to repress a smirk. But, the doctor was too tired to think about it, or to _observe_ that strange, almost evil gleam in his friend's eye.


	8. Video Games

A/N: Another short one. To Prothoe: Thanks for your review! I'm glad you liked my story. :)

Video Games

"John…" Sherlock moaned from his place curled on the couch, his back to the doctor.

"Hmm?" John asked, preparing himself for the worst.

The consulting detective stretched out his long form, twisting onto his back.

"I'm bored…" he said to the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that statement? Probably everyone got bored sometimes. However, never was boredom so frequent or so dangerous as when it was the boredom of one Sherlock Holmes. Only one thing could truly assuage Sherlock's boredom and they hadn't had a case in over a week. But then, the doctor got an idea.

"Let me see your phone," he said, reaching to take the thing from the coffee table.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock snatched it out of the other man's reach defensively, cradling it like one would cradle a child.

"What for?" he demanded.

"Just let me see it," John persisted.

Sherlock eyed his friend suspiciously, then, reluctantly surrendered the mobile.

John fiddled with the device for a few minutes, then passed it back to the detective, saying, "Try this."

Sherlock snatched the phone and studied the screen. On it, a game was loading.

"Oh, dull," Sherlock sighed.

"How do you know?" John answered. "You haven't even tried it. Most people…"

"Most people, John. Those are the key words in that sentence."

John groaned. "Just give it a chance. What have you got to lose?"

"Brain cells."

Another groan. "Fine. Be bored then. You act like a child so often, one would think you'd enjoy something kids do," the doctor added, smirking at Sherlock's vicious glare.

Silence fell for a moment. Then, John thought of something. A trick that he had used before. It had worked then. It was worth a shot, if it would get Sherlock to stop moaning. "It could be…an experiment," the doctor said. "Then, when it's over, you can tell the world from experience how dumb video games are."

Sherlock pondered this, the slightest of smirks quirking one corner of his mouth.

Soon, the sounds of bad music and the occasion electronic noise, beeps and clicks, could be heard in the flat. Sherlock stared at the screen of his phone in complete concentration. So, John could grin at him without fear of evil looks.

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock reported that he had beaten all 150 levels in the game and was, once again, bored.

"You would," John answered, rolling his eyes in ill-concealed fondness.


	9. Past

A/N: I'm finally back again! I have a number of pieces for this series, but I can't seem to come up with endings, don't like wording, etc. For example, I didn't really lie my last chapter. But anyway, this one's OOC but, I really like it and I hope you guys do too!

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Past

It was their first case since Sherlock's return and, if John were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was a bit happy. Not happy that someone had died, you understand, but happy to be returning to normal, or at least what was normal for them.

It was to this happiness that he attributed the fact that he did not notice right away.

When they arrived at the crime scene, John sobered a bit. It was a horrible sight. There was so much blood. But, the doctor and the detective had crouched next to the body and John had begun his medical examination. So focused was he on this task that, once again, he failed to see immediately.

Then, he felt movement beside him. Drawn from his thoughts, the doctor turned, to find that no one was there. For just an instant, wild fear and panic seized John's heart. He knew he was being unreasonable and childish and so he crushed the emotions. But, they had been there all the same. For just a moment, his mind had screamed, what if Sherlock was gone again? What if the past few days had been a dream conjured by a mind shattered with grief?

But no, Sherlock had only taken a few steps back. Silently releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, John looked up to his friend. At first, he thought perhaps the detective had backed away to get a better view of the scene. But then, Sherlock took another step back and bumped into a police car. And he started. It was a minute, almost invisible movement, but John saw it. He saw Sherlock's Adam's apple bob spasmodically. Then, looking into those silver-blue eyes, John saw something else: raw, unconcealed fear.

John rose slowly to his feet. He had seen that fear before, felt it himself sometimes, especially at night, the fear of a man backed into a corner, a man forced to face his inner demons.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly.

The slender man started again, gaze darting up, then falling back down. "John," he said. The man seemed to be trying to force his voice to be steady. But, he did not completely succeed. The word came out almost like suddenly released breath, with the slightest of quavers to it.

"Are you alright?" John asked, taking a careful step nearer.

The eyes flicked up and fell once more. "Of course. Of course I'm alright. I just…need to think, that's all. Everyone around here thinks so loudly. I can hardly focus…." The lie was clear in Sherlock's voice and obvious due to the fact that Lestrade and his team had mostly backed off to give the two some space. And now, Lestrade was pushing them back even further, seeing Sherlock's unease.

While his friend had been talking, John had inched slowly closer. Now, he placed a gentle hand on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock flinched, but did not pull away completely. And now, with a hand on the taller man's shoulder, John could feel, through that great coat, the slightest tremor shaking the lanky frame. Sherlock was pale, more so even then usually.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" the doctor asked, voice still quiet. "Here, sit down." He brought his other hand up to Sherlock's other shoulder and gently pushed the detective down to sit on the ground. Then, crouching in front of his friend, he took the trembling man's wrist in his hand. The pulse that beat there was fast and weak. The skin was cold and clammy.

_Shock_, John's medical mind said. But, why? Sherlock had seen case after case of murder, many as gruesome as this. Why was this different? Did he know the victim, perhaps? Even were that so, why would it effect his usual detachment? Now that he thought about it, the doctor realized that, even during the cab ride to the scene, Sherlock had seemed…off. The man had simply stared out the window the whole time, and, while this alone was not unusual, the excitement that usually came off of him in waves had been absent. John pulled off his coat and draped it over his friend, mumbling once more, "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"S-so much blood." The answer was so quiet, the doctor barely heard it. Sherlock sat, shivering, eyes riveted to his hands in his lap.

And then, it hit him. Sherlock had been gone for three years. And, in those three years, what had he been doing? He'd been getting rid of Moriarty's network. John could only guess what the detective had seen and done in that time. Upon his return, Sherlock had freely answered all of John's questions, but then summarily dropped the subject of the past three years. However, being an ex-army doctor, John could make a reasonable guess of what was bothering his friend.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "it's…it's alright." He took the detective's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're alright now." He paused for a moment. "We could go home…if you want."

Sherlock's shaking calmed a bit. "No, I'll be alright," he murmured. He looked up for a moment and, in those storm-grey eyes, John saw a flicker, a shadow, of those three years. The eyes quickly fell again. There was a short stretch of silence. "I had never," the slightest pause, "killed a man, until that day, not long after I…left. Yes, I shot at a suspect once or twice, but never enough to kill them." The detective looked up once more, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. "I have a new respect for you, John Watson."

The ex-soldier shook his head sadly. "I don't want to be respected for murder. I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to save people's lives, not end them."

There was another silence. Sherlock was staring at his hands again. _As if he expects them to be covered in blood, _John thought. Time was, he had found himself doing the same thing. Then, very quietly, "How do you do it, John?" the detective asked. "How do you live with it?"

The doctor gave a slight smile. "I think those mugs of tea had something to do with it."

Sherlock's pale cheeks flushed slightly. It seemed years ago, those nights he had made two mugs of tea and sat with his friend, the only way he knew how to help his flatmate chase away the horrors of the war.

"Maybe, I could return the favor some time," John added.

Pale eyes looked up again and John received a small, but honest, smile.

Sherlock's shaking had stilled as the two talked. Taking his friend's thin wrist in his hand, John found that the pulse had steadied somewhat, the skin warmed slightly.

John rose to his feet, extending a hand to his friend. "Alright?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, taking the offered hand and letting himself be pulled to his feet.

XxX

Sherlock had given his usual string of deductions, acting as if nothing had happened, and Lestrade and his team had their work cut out for them. But, before he left, the DI pulled the doctor aside and asked in a low tone, "Is he okay?"

John gave a smile of fond exasperation, watching as Sherlock and Anderson threw barbs back and forth, a practice which had lost some of its venom since the…incident. In answer, he said, "Yes, I think he will be."

And if, in the future the doctor and the detective found themselves awake far into the nigh, drinking tea and watching telly, well, they each had their problems to work through, and those times turned out to be rather fun, listening to Sherlock hurl insults at the screen. Besides, it was a fact that need never leave the flat.


End file.
